


hebdomachrome

by halfaday



Category: NCT (Band)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Supernatural Elements, Domestic Fluff, M/M, Slice of Life, Vampire Kim Dongyoung | Doyoung
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-01
Updated: 2020-11-01
Packaged: 2021-03-08 01:22:10
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,953
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26987413
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/halfaday/pseuds/halfaday
Summary: If you asked Mark to assign colours to the days of the week, here's what he would say.
Relationships: Kim Dongyoung | Doyoung/Mark Lee
Comments: 14
Kudos: 32
Collections: Challenge #2 — tricks; treats; and terrors





	hebdomachrome

**Author's Note:**

> funnily enough, i wanted to write this for the first round. to quote dr. ian malcolm, i guess life finds a way.

If you asked Mark to assign colours to the days of the week, he would probably frown first. Wondering just what kind of question this is, laughing awkwardly as he tries to figure out if it's a joke and he's told it's not — the frown would deepen, then, and he would quiet down as he thinks of an answer, serious and fully considered, something that has meaning.

The silence would last a while, probably — Dongyoung knows for a fact Mark likes to be cemented in his opinion before he expresses it — _just to be sure, just to sound believable._ Which isn't necessary around him, but it's a habit Mark picked up as he was growing up, and Dongyoung finds it sweet when he loses himself in it. Threads of thoughts from which he sometimes struggles to entangle himself, displayed in a wrinkled forehead and pursed lips — ears that do not catch words thrown at them, and a gentle _oh? you said something?_ when he realises.

 _Cute,_ Dongyoung likes to call it — something that always has Mark rolling his eyes then blushing, a light pink or a bright red — something that always pulls him to the surface, and land, where wording himself perfectly isn't an obligation and he's allowed to make mistakes. An island, where peace reigns as queen, and Dongyoung exerts its will — where Mark is treated as the most special guest, and torment is not welcome.

If you asked him about it, Mark would probably say it's multi-coloured, a bouquet of all the shades one could ever come across — and he would be able to ramble about it on and on, because over the years he's built a Perfect mental image of it, and Dongyoung has reflected it every day, has kept it alive again and again (because Mark sees it, whenever he closes his eyes or drowns in his thoughts, and it shines just a little brighter every day).

To think of it, Mark would probably use his picture of the island as a support — he would go through every part, every detail of it, and make the seven decisions based on what he sees in it. The blue of the deep sea surrounding the island reflecting troubles and weariness; the green of the trees representing time off with Dongyoung; the red of the sunset standing for quiet moments before the night settles in — black, for moments spent awake around, after, midnight; yellow, for lunches (the colour of the apron Dongyoung wears when he's cooking); orange, for when Dongyoung is away, and he looks at the sun while he waits for him — pink, for every moment he spends with Dongyoung, and his heart flutters stupidly. 

A different shade for a different moment, a different state of mind — unity at the end of it all, a firework that has never been seen before.

So many shades, _colours_ to choose from, and if you asked Mark to pick seven of them, he would be unable to answer on the spot. But if you gave him time, and you didn't mind waiting for years, decades — perhaps even centuries, if you were willing to stick around long enough to know what his future holds — he would eventually be able to give you one, and not once doubt it.

He would tilt his head as he reaches his conclusion, and smile — he would clear his throat, then open his mouth — and he would say…

💭

Mondays are a definite grey. The start of the week, the implicit knowledge that work, school is starting again for yet another round — the coldness and darkness of the world as his alarm rings and consciousness seeps into his body, forcing him awake and - away.

If Dongyoung were a colour, he would be brown: a creature made for the night, yet who lives during the day — a warm embrace when winter makes itself known and sorrow knocks on Mark's door — a gentle presence, who never once makes the temperature of the room drop, who makes Mark feel like a planet orbiting a star — a sun, dimmer but just as necessary as the one placed in the sky; who does everything the faraway star cannot.

His embrace is warm, always — but it seems even more comfortable on Monday mornings, and leaving it behind is something Mark can never truly accept, can never truly power through. He knows that it's only a matter of hours, that he'll meet Dongyoung again in the evening (that he never really has the strength to make up for the loss of the morning until they're both in bed and he curls up to Dongyoung out of habit) — but he hates the feelings it brings him, no matter how often it happens. He's used to it by now, of course, knows the feeling by heart — yet every time makes it feel… new, almost _fresh,_ like a frozen iron pressed to his skin, his heart — and it makes the organ stop for a while, dropping in his chest and pawing at the void, hoping for a familiar warm hand to reach out to it.

And because Mondays are Mondays, Dongyoung is still asleep when he leaves, and his heart remains at the bottom of the ocean all day — he drags himself through classes and work like a living dead, and never really feels any spark.

(Unless he forgets his watch by the bedside table, and he has to rush back into the apartment to collect it. There, tiptoeing and using his surroundings as markers to make his way through his goal, Mark, watch finally in hand and heart giving its last breath, ultimately finds his way back to warmth

And it wakes, gives him just what he needs to be okay today.

Dongyoung, half-asleep and engulfed by darkness - Dongyoung takes his hand, and presses it to his cheek — he kisses his palm, and sighs, as if he knew, as if he shared the feeling.

'Have a good day, love.'

Dark grey becomes lighter, and Mark's heart has enough air to last it until he comes back home. Forgetting time is a habit, now.)

🌫

Tuesdays are a bright orange, for a reason that isn't too important. By then, Mark has made peace with another week dedicated to working hard — the grey faded during the night, and he comes home to Dongyoung standing by the stove, preparing dinner while his newest pack of blood waits for him in a wine glass.

'Had a good day?'

He greets Mark with a laugh, a hand placed on his own as Mark snakes his arms around his waist and leans against him — he welcomes him home by a kiss to his knuckles, and a whispered _missed you too._

And if it weren't for market day, for the yellow of the apron he always wears when cooking and the red of the blood he bought in the morning — if it weren't for the way they blend together and Mark feels perfectly in his place -

Tuesdays would be a bright pink, just for the way he blushes when Dongyoung finally turns around, and properly kisses him hello.

As it is, the taste of blood on Dongyoung's lips and the sun rising in Mark's heart — orange triumphs.

☀️

Obviously, Wednesdays are pitch black. They have yet to find a way to ward off the curse put on their apartment way before they moved in — in the meantime, as Dongyoung asks around for help while Mark busies himself with the world of living, as they wait for an answer or a spell — 

They rise at four in the morning, and spend the following hour together. Sometimes they discuss everything and nothing in bed, the faint light of the alarm clock giving Mark enough light to make out Dongyoung's silhouette by his side; sometimes they get out of bed and cook, walk around the apartment, do chores they procrastinated on during the day.

Tonight, to Dongyoung's request, they curl up on the couch, and press start on a movie Dongyoung has been wanting to see for ages. It's about ghosts and singing _(lots_ of singing), and though Mark isn't as captivated as Dongyoung, he finds the piece enjoyable, reassuring. He leans against Dongyoung's chest, and lets him rest his chin on his shoulder — falls asleep, perhaps, _definitely,_ because he opens his eyes to pitch black again, and a mattress beneath him, a hand loosely holding his waist.

Under the minuscule ray of light _05:57_ gifts Mark, he sees a peaceful face, sound asleep and eternally his. 

He interlaces his fingers with Dongyoung's, and shuts his eyes. Pitch black is just fine.

🖤

Thursdays, edging on the good side of the week, yet interminable and heavy upon Mark's back — Thursdays are an electric blue. It's something he's actually discussed with Dongyoung, one time (an nth time) he'd come home and gone straight to bed, unwilling to even have dinner, too tired to even properly tuck himself in: Dongyoung had followed him, and he'd sat by his side, had stroked his hair tenderly. (Feather-light fingertips gently tracing patterns of a different era upon his scalp, a whisper asking him if he was okay, if he needed to talk.)

(He did, and they'd spent the next fifteen minutes discussing the day, the _Thursdays_ in general — and Mark had gone to sleep with the thought of pastel blue Thursdays, matching the rain and the melancholia Dongyoung felt on every one of them — clashing with his own picture of dark blue Thursdays, and the exhaustion they pushed onto him, the despair they left him with.)

(It did not match at all, he'd thought the next Thursday — as he studied in his usual corner of the library, and the blue ink he wrote with reminded him of the conversation — of rainy days, and the past. The sky was clear, then: it offered an entire world if one only reached for it. It did not match. Not really.)

Thursdays are an electric blue for the same reason Tuesdays are orange. An addition, nothing less — perhaps a little more: Thursdays are unpredictable, the worst of the worst when it comes to the universe and its seven billion tricks. 

It's the day on which Mark broke his leg — on which Dongyoung _almost_ set the kitchen on fire — on which the neighbour's cat stopped showing up… The heaviest day of all for Mark, crumbling under homework, classes, clients and piss-poor weather — the longest day for Dongyoung, half-dead during the first twelve hours of it; reminded of a past he used to have once he's awake — lonely until Mark comes back, and not quite healed until he falls asleep.

Thursdays are - heavy, charged with a tension that resides in no other day — they wear both of them down, but in a way that wakes them up, that reminds them they're alive.

Mark thinks they suck. Tremendously.

'It's okay. I got you.'

Dongyoung burrows himself a little deeper in his arms, and Mark rests his chin on the crown of his head.

He knows Dongyoung feels just the same.

🌊

Hand in hand as they walk home, taking the trail that snakes into the woods and ends a few minutes away from their apartment — Fridays are green. Gazing at the trees as pleasant silence accompany the pair, they could almost be the most versatile: a pale blue, almost white in winter, sprinkled with soot black; purple, pink in spring when flowers bloom and fruits emerge from their sleep; green during summer and filled with warm tones in autumn -

But the grass on both sides of the trail, the moss growing on the trunks of the trees, the healthiest colour of the leaves — are all a bright green, filling Mark's eyes with a sense of attraction, of _home_ — of breathing a little better, an air that is purer. It reminds him of oxygen, and air — of freedom, and the life that flows in his veins, the one that is permanently stuck in Dongyoung's.

(And when the weather is chilly, Dongyoung wears his pine green hoodie, a colour Mark never tires of seeing on him. He looks… soft, walking by his side, observing their surroundings — drinking a glass of blood once they're home, and reminding Mark of an art class from years ago, focused on primary colours and their secondary contrasts. Pine green, deep red - he believes it matches.)

Swinging their hands as he takes in a big gulp of air, Mark smiles — he rubs a thumb along Dongyoung's hand, and appreciates what was once humanity's home before it grew on. 

Devoid of a weary future, Fridays are sometimes his favourite.

🌲

True beginnings of a brief break, the first lazy mornings out of a pair — Saturdays are red. Because of the blood Dongyoung drinks as they spend lunch together, of the way it tinges his lips crimson for a few hours — because of the apples Mark eats around four in the afternoon, of the flowers the neighbour next door always receives every first Saturday of the month — the red gravel Mark treads on as he goes grocery shopping, the red slippers Dongyoung wears and loses in some part of the apartment - 

Because of the violent, embarrassing blush Dongyoung manages to get out of him _every time,_ and because Mark always pictures his heart in these moments — pumping out so much blood, struggling to remain afloat as he dies inside — red, a tapestry of red, flying before his eyes, and swallowing him whole as Dongyoung laughs and laughs and laughs.

Music to Mark's ears: one more reason for his heart to keep pumping, and pumping.

Cheeks and nose covered with flour, hands questionably pink, eyes not once looking away, Dongyoung bridges the distance between them, and kisses him once, twice — he makes red the prettiest colour Mark has ever seen, and every blush he makes him go through worth it.

Against his lips, heart knocking against his ribcage - Mark gives back his own shade of red.

And Dongyoung welcomes it home with open arms.

❣

Sundays are white. Just like the cross from his childhood, that now sits in their very tiny laundry room; just like the exterior of the church where mass takes place; just like its stairs; and the hands of the pastor, fresh around his own, caring as they give his a squeeze, as he thanks Mark for coming and bids him farewell.

'Went well?'

Dongyoung is waiting by the bench furthest from the building, hands buried deep into the pockets of his trench coat — until Mark is close enough, and suddenly one is reaching out — it pulls him closer, and fills the empty spaces between Mark's fingers with its own. 

(On Mark's forehead: lips brushing against his skin, the ghost of a kiss, a gentle _hello again.)_

Sundays are white like the shirt Dongyoung always wears then. Like the colour of his skin under the sun, and his teeth as his smile widens. Like the sculpture of flowers erected two years ago by the veterinarian's on the way home, and the wedding dresses sitting behind the windows of a shop whose long name Mark always struggles to remember fully.

They're white, just like bright lights, _the sun_ when you look at it without protection — just like what stands at the end of the tunnel and announces the end of suffering, the beginning of something better.

They're white, achromatic piece completing the puzzle of the week, the finishing touch on the tapestry painted every seven days. The lightest colour one could ever think of — clouds in the sky, and the foam of the sea — the droplet Dongyoung used to wear as a necklace, and the pearl on the ring he gifted to Mark a few years back. White. A bright, vivid white.

'Shall you have take-out today? I'd like to watch a movie with you.'

'Again?'

Dongyoung laughs.

'Again.'

Mark thinks it fits the end of the week, _Dongyoung,_ perfectly. 

(And he's curious, too.)

'Say, if you had to give colours to the days of the week, what would each colour be?'

(A beat.)

'I don't think there'd be any specific colour. I'd go for holographic, probably. Such a pretty word. A pretty concept. I envy this century.'

Mark laughs — believes he should have expected it: after all, Dongyoung _has_ a certain obsession with holographic. He tries again:

'Still?'

Dongyoung makes an effort, thinks it through — smiles sheepishly.

'No idea.'

He brings Mark's hand to his lips and kisses it as a way to ask for forgiveness — he makes Mark flush, again, and laughs when he notices.

'You know what,' he slows down his pace, pulls Mark to his chest — kisses his hand again, eyes set into his, not once wavering. He chuckles, softly, as Mark flushes even more. He's delighted — the sun shines on the collar of his shirt, and Mark has to squint, just a little. 'I don't really care about the days and the colours they should have. You're my bright pink forever, and it's all that really matters.'

(And suddenly Mark doesn't have to squint anymore: Dongyoung kisses him, softly, tenderly, and sends every colour flying out the window — he paints Mark's world with his own shades, and becomes it all, becomes something only for Mark.

Something that shines, bright, and promises to do so until Mark is sick of it, until the world ends.)

(And at its core, Mark recognises a familiar colour: warm, inviting, and faithful. Always there to welcome him home, and always waiting for him, always ready to believe in him.

Warm, reassuring, comfortable to be around — yearning to orbit him, and content to spend, perhaps, forever with him. And Mark knows.)

In the end, no matter what day it is, his favourite colour remains brown.

**Author's Note:**

> one day when humanity gets the gift of a grey heart emoji... the dingbats of this fic will peak
> 
> [twt](https://twitter.com/millesoirees) :D


End file.
